


Shorts

by neverwondernever (thatgbppfrom10880MP)



Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:44:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgbppfrom10880MP/pseuds/neverwondernever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is, in essence, the writing equivalent of "sketches" and are me testing out and practising the style and characters. This page is only so they exist and have proper formatting (because Tumblr, where I originally posted them, kept messing with the layout). These will be mixed in spoilers (for both the novels and the short stories).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Books

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of them and is an incompleted piece. It's more of a scene. It takes place after "The Brother Cabal."

He pursed his lips, placing down the stack of books, as if they were not bound, dead, trees and ink, but rather a very large and venemous ill-tempered arachnid. He glared at them, as if daring them to do something nefarious.

“No matter how much you glare at them, they won’t catch fire,” the infuriating vampire said. This was, of course, Horst Cabal, and the much more amenable of the two Cabal brothers.

Johannes Cabal turned his gaze to his brother. “I dislike…” he said, realizing suddenly that he was faced with several dislikes. Dealing with the townsfolk was one of them, which isn’t to say that they’re bad people, but rather that they dislike him, what he did, and they held a mutual dislike for each other. So long as they kept to their own—Johannes to his home, barring the few times he needed groceries, and the townsfolk to whatever it is they do—then no one had an issue. This was only one of those dislikes. The other was the types of books that Horst tended to read—overly purple in prose, revoltingly romantic, and stunningly simple. It was perfectly _Horstian_. And of this, Johannes was not a fan. Thirdly, he was thoroughly convinced that his brother had no real intention of reading these books at all, and only wanted to needle Johannes by making him suffer the embarrassment of purchasing books such as _The Lurid Bed Tales of Lu-Kthu_. This brought several images to his mind, which were all more disturbing by the second and not in the slightest titillating.

He realized Horst was looking at him, mouth curled slightly, eyes a little brighter, and he realized precisely how evil his brother had become since his transformation into a night-wandering parasite, “I dislike wasting time. As you should know, the more of my time you waste, the less I am able to work—and this includes your cure.” He added, growing impatient and irritated, thinking back to how the bookseller, who generally regarded Johannes as someone to never share words with, had raised an eyebrow and took to a certain gleaming nature that made him uncomfortable. Johannes was sure that the man was now spreading the news to the pub that he purchased several unsavory titles today. This could do nothing but cause problems for his reputation.  
“I have a reputation to uphold, you know,” Cabal said.  
This only made Horst more amused. “A reputation? Come now, Johannes. It’s just a few books. I’m sure the towns people will be up to disliking you by sunrise.”

Johannes locked his jaw in irritation and left Horst to his potboilers.


	2. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place at an unknown temporal period, but likely after "The Necromancer." It is unrelated to the first short.

It was a night like all other nights, or as common as any night can be. A crow outside _kronk_ ed to itself, a little bored, a little tired. Bats flew around, enjoying their nightly feast of insects, and the trees were dark against the deep blue-black sky. The moon rose through the sky dutifully. What was abnormal, however, was happening within the sooty Victorian house. Perhaps perplexing to anyone who knew the inhabitant’s proclivities, the house was relatively calm and quiet, barring for the simple fact that a scientific and necrothological minded individual was sleeping with some difficulty. 

That was to say, Johannes Cabal was having a nightmare.

If you woke him, he would not be able to say what it was. This is not simply because he would glare at you and demand as to why and how you found your way into his home before likely shooting you with a .577 Wesley, but also because it is not the sort of nightmare that you remember. It was the sort of nightmare that touched along the edges of your fraying mind. It preyed upon your worries and your fears. It was the sort that dug into you, but was disturbingly lacking of substance for why it disturbed you so.

After fitfully twitching, Johannes awoke.

The world was blurred and disjointed. He was confused. Intrinsically he knew where he was—his bed, his bedroom, his house—but there was a primal struggle to understand what this all meant. Something was wrong and why or even what was wrong was unclear. Normally a man of logic and reason, he struggled to find the bedside lamp with more more desperation than he cared to admit, hounded still by the gnawing fear that this sort of nightmare so reveled in. With dismay, he felt the cold, hard lamp fall away and he heard a crash.

Cabal growled in frustration.

He got out of bed, searching for the lamp. After finding it, he returned it to the table.

This was when he realized he was cold.

No, not just cold, sweaty.

He returned under the covers, shivering slightly. He decided not to turn on the lamp. He didn’t need its light to feel safe. He was within his own protected walls. There was nothing after him, he concluded. Just a simple trick of his mind.

Breathing in and out, he attempted to calm himself. He reasoned that while his mind was caught up to the events that had transpired—having a nightmare, waking in confusion—his body was not. It would take a minute, certainly, for the chemicals of flight and fear to dissipate, but until then, he could at least calm his breathing and therefore his heart rate.

As he was doing this, he berated himself. A nightmare. Of all individuals. He was too logical for such puerile pass times of the mind. He had faced countless true nightmares that there should be little for him to fear.

Somewhere in his mind, a piece of him sighed darkly and appreciatively. “Ahhh,” this piece of him thought. “But there is something you fear, isn’t there?”  
He attempted to push this part of him away. It was unnecessary.

This did nothing to prevent a chaotic flurry of thoughts—strands that had come loose during his nightmare. A sunny day. His family—all alive, his brother, father, and mother. Morning tea. A simpler time. And in a second, these thoughts snapped and he thought of a river. Shouts. The world growing unnaturally dark—not by some chaotic and villainous source, but rather from that dawning terror of realization that something bad just happened. Something that people do not recover from. His brother. The news.

Cabal slapped his hand down against the bed, trying to wake himself from the dark, deep unwarranted thoughts. He turned over on his side, then quickly turned to his other side. When realizing that neither side would magically dissipate these thoughts, he returned to lying on his back. _Scheiße._

His physical attempts to keep his thoughts at bay failed and he was back into the trench of fear and guilt. He felt that plummet in his stomach. The stricken, pale and grim faces of those around him. The simple, matter of fact way that someone said, _“Sie ist tot.”_

That word, _tot_ , hung in his mind’s air for longer than was necessary, repeating over and over.

Then, Cabal felt a new sense of falling in his stomach.

“The year,” he said, and it dawned on him that he had forgotten what year in which she died.

In a flurry, he half-fell, half-leaped out of bed. That thought running through his mind like an overzealous and naïve greyhound after a racetrack lure—the year, the year, what was the year?

He snatched at his robe, initially failing in his disorientation, but managed to put it on as best as one could when they’re only half-mentally in the world.

Cabal stormed through his house, stepping quickly, feet thudding on the floorboards. He knew the year, he knew it, and yet it escaped him. Whenever he failed to answer “What year?” he mentally kicked himself, cursing at himself viciously, but of course every time he asked himself what year it had been, the answer floated away. He was Johannes Cabal and he did not simply forget something like the year she died.

That is when he found himself, amid a flurry of papers and equipment that had been shoved aside, staring at an obituary notice. Time had turned it to a soft orangish hue, the paper stiffer and therefore more brittle than normal newsprint. Breathing roughly, he reread the date over and over, sated that he yet again knew the day, month, and year, and that it was only the rough, chaotic nature of the nightmare that led him to believe that he had forgotten it. With some difficulty, he read the clipping—it detailing the events that transpired and the obituary notice of the woman. He breathed sharply, gently placing it next to the other papers he had carelessly pushed aside in his search. “I remember,” he told himself quietly. “It was simply a nightmare.”

His mouth twitched. He was both disturbed and, surprising to himself, amused by the notion that even he suffered from simple nightmares.


	3. An Outing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is also unrelated to the others and takes place before the Cabal books. Thank you, Myriad, for helping me in the German translation and making it sound more natural.

The air was busy with city activity. Horses pulled along an omnibus, yet was followed by a Benz Motorwagen and that was followed still by a newly minted Dampf-Kaft-Wagen. All in all, it was like a procession of vehicular history—from horses to two-stroke pistons, and Horst was watching it enraptured. This was why he loved the city, as rare as it was that they visited it. It was all new, always busy, and always exciting. He turned around, searching for his brother, Johannes, believing that he would equally be excited, and yet, there he was, looking at something on the wall. Horst's face fell and he moved to his brother's side.

 _“Was ist es?”_ Horst asked him.

Johannes was biting his finger, staring intently at an insect. Horst shook him in the way all children did—roughly. Johannes made an unhappy groaning noise in protest. “ _Was ist...?_ ” he said to himself.

“ _Ein Käfer_ ,” a gruff, deep voice said and a shadow passed over the Cabal children.

They both looked up and smiled—Horst's in recognition and Johannes' in the sheer joy that children his age get when spotting their parent. “ _Vati!_ ” Johannes shouted. “ _Was ist... Ein Käfer?_ ” he asked.

Gottlieb Cabal sighed. His children, always so persistent. Always asking questions about everything. It was both endearing and tiresome. He picked up Johannes, who protested at first, unhappy to leave his black and yellow-white mirid, which was not actually a beetle, Johannes eventually learned, but rather what is classified as a true bug. Completely different orders and that is completely besides the point. Gottlieb chattered to his son, fishing for whatever knowledge he had in his head, whatever he knew about hard-shelled six-legged things. Johannes listened intently throughout, latched on to his _Vati_ , while Horst was holding on to Gottlieb's free hand.

“ _Ich hab' ein Auto gesehen! Vati, vati! Ein Auto_!” Horst shouted in the way children do when they are excited to tell news to their parental figure.

“ _Ja, ja, Horst_ ,” Gottlieb said, trying to balance the attention of both his sons. They headed down the street. Their destination ahead—a multi-façade cream building adorned with arches and pillars. A large bronze pegasus stood at the topmost pediment. A woman with a staff and superseded by four rearing dogs was above the lower pediment. The words _Dem Wahren Shoenen Guten_ were inscribed below the pediment. These adornments soon drew the wonder of Gottlieb's inquisitive children and soon he was making up the story for these bronze and marble figures.

The three waited outside this magnificent building, Gottlieb talking, but his children shouting louder in excitement. As per usual, however, Horst and Johannes began to bicker, each believing their own questions more important than the other's.

“ _Langsam, langsam, einer nach dem anderen_ ,” a clear voice rang out and the children stopped to look up at the newcomer. This was of course, Liese Cabal.

Johannes stared at her, apprehensive, still wanting answers to his questions. Horst exclaimed, “ _Muti, ein Auto! Auto!_ ”

Liese looked to her husband questioningly.

Gottlieb shrugged slightly, as if to apologise for contributing to the excited mess that was their children, and said, “ _Horst hat ein Auto gesehen._ ” He then looked at Johannes and added, “ _Und Johannes hat nen Fäfer gefunden._ ” The children exclaimed in agreement, trying to override each other. 

As the children bickered—more patiently this time, not wanting to get in trouble with their _Muti_ —as the Cabal parents kissed quickly and primly, then exchanged words. By this point, neither of the Cabal brothers were listening, and had taken up a sort of contest over which was better—insects or modes of travel. To Johannes' youthful mind, the insects won, he reasoned, because they had more legs. Later in life, he would grow to appreciate how wrong he was. More legs did not mean something was better, and in fact, after he watched a disconcerting ball of legs wriggle one evening after summoning a member of the more unusual and lesser of demons in Hell—he decided that two was a perfectly good number of legs to have.  
Fifteen minutes later, the Cabals, after finally managing to sooth their children, entered the opera house. The air filled with a cadence in D minor of Mozart's design and a clear bass voice started to sing “ _Notte e giorno faticar..._ ”


End file.
